It's only been a day, but I already miss my mate. The ache is deeper than I expected—like a gaping hole in my chest, a yearning I can't seem to fill no matter how hard I try. I've done my best to distract myself, but every little thing reminds me of him. His scent, his voice, the way his presence grounds me—it's all I can think about.
I focus on the canvas in front of me, trying to channel my emotions into something productive. My brush moves aimlessly, the strokes wild and chaotic. Abstract, I convince myself. It's a reflection of my thoughts. A mess of colors and shapes that somehow feels right. Maybe, centuries from now, someone will call it brilliant—an emotional masterpiece by the Prime's Luna. Who knows? Maybe they'll pay millions for it.
